


dance in the moonlight

by spencerdee



Series: To Ash and Ruin [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood Magic, F/F, POV Second Person, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spencerdee/pseuds/spencerdee
Summary: soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them“You’re not human! You’re a monster!”BloodMage!Trevelyan





	

 

You have never played ignorant to the darkness that clings to your family like an unshakeable cloak. House Trevelyan is, despite the front your family has put up to the Chantry and the Free Marchians, an Imperium clan. The connection runs deep in your bones, unmistakeable and inescapeable.

"Lilium," you father calls for your attention. His hair is greying and his eyes are wavering, but his hands are steady on his staff - a figure of power, if you've ever seen one. Your House is patriarchal, but more so than gender, power is given to those whose magic is most potent. The palms of your hands itch at the idea, and you know with certainty that once your father steps down, you would be declared Master of the House.

"Lilium," he calls again, sterner with irritation at having to repeat himself. You square your shoulders and nod at his unspoken command. Your eyes fall on the elven servant kneeling down smack dab in the circle created by your family members. You don't know her name - none in your family has ever made it necessary for these slaves to declare their names so long as they serve their purpose well - and you don't dare look into her eyes. Your grip the length of your staff and bring the butt down on the granite flooring. The harsh sound echoes in the chamber, and the elf takes that as her cue to take the knife presented in front of her. An olive arm is shot out, kissed by the cold blade in the next second. There is no hesitation, no fear in the eyes of the elven servant that has done the action numerous times in her short life. The faces of your family members remain stoic, and you school your own to mimic theirs.

By the nearly missable glint in your mother's eyes, you know that a smile has made itself permanent on your lips.

You grip the power of the blood pooling in the hollow bowl between you and the elven servant. A flex of your mind calls the magic inherent in the claret liquid, and you feel your personal talents magnified. As it was on the first time you'd harnessed this power, you find your breath taken from you. Blood magic is an experience - a wonderful, _exhilirating_ experience.

Your eyes fall on the black band tied neatly around your wrist. Somehow, whenever you harness magic like this, the words etched into your skin burns. You can almost see every line and loop through the fabric, and you cannot help the dark chuckle that escapes you.

You have never played ignorant to the darkness that clings to your family. After all, you see that darkness slumbering comfortably beneath your eyelids.

* * *

"A pest," Lady Irina Trevelyan, your mother, spits out. Her hands, previously slammed on the table, shake with the fury boiling in her veins. For a moment, you fear that her wrath might find you as its target, but her eyes remain on a blank space on your wall. You wonder what image her mind conjures there. "That pesky Red Jenny."

_Red Jenny_. It is not a name foreign to you. You know her as the bogeyman of the noble families. You've heard of her work in street gossips and gatherings with the other nobles. Apparently, just in the past week, she had robbed two Antivan noble houses at the same time. You know for a fact that one of the said houses have their treasury to the north, while the other makes their bed to the south. They call Red Jenny magic - a _demon_.

You don't believe them. You've seen demons. You've consorted with a number of them, felt their power coursing under your skin, and you've never once seen any like this rumoured Red Jenny.

Now, though, you're faced with the bogeyman herself.

"She came out of nowhere, Mother," pipes up Killian, the eldest among the four - no, the three of you. "Her arrows took down ten guards before we could even raise our shields. She is the demon they say she is."

"Silence," roars your father next, the fury in your mother's eyes now mirrored in his. "Demon or no, you are Templars. Nay, you are Trevelyans. One woman of mystery will not cow your spirits."

Killian bows his head, but you notice the slight tremble in his hands hiddens underneath the table.

You have never seen your family this distressed, and frankly, you're terrified of just what this Red Jenny can do.

* * *

You raise a hand in dismissal towards your handmaiden, a young woman of Ferelden descent - something you'd only determined through the accent in her words. "I'll make my own way to my room. Leave me."

She makes a noise of protest, but you whirl around before the words can form in her throat. You raise a brow, daring her to continue. When she lowers her head and shuffles back, you heave a sigh of relief. Somehow, with the news of Red Jenny stirring trouble in your household, your nerves have been fried. The many servants slinking around the corridors of your home suddenly feel foreign. You haven't allowed your maidservant into your quarters in days, and somehow, it's the only action that has felt right.

Sure, the heads of the house may think that it is negligence in the servant's part - and they would be punished _severely_ for such a crime - but you could hardly care for their well-being. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, as though eyes follow your every action. Your magic feels jumpy, easily startled into initiating a spell that could be detrimental to your household's health with the slightest foreign movement in the shadows. Worse, you fear that this panic and paranoia may stay your magic come the time the threat makes itself known.

A fireball forms in your palm, and you sigh at its comforting warmth. You know this power, you've wielded it as easily as you will your lungs to breath, and you know how much you can stretch its limitations. Does this Red Jenny know? Does this bogeyman understand the wealth of power lying dormant and untapped inside of you?

You extinguish the flame and move on. The eyes follow your every step.

* * *

Sleep fails to claim you.

As with every night when your nightmares become nearly so concrete that you think you can taste the miasma of their breath on your tongue, you fingers find the fabric on your wrist. The black band has been on your person for years, hiding an integral part of your status as a Trevelyan.

In days past, you were younger then, you had eyed the writing with fascination, confusion, and fear. It had been there for as long as you remember; in fact, the mark appears on a Trevelyan's skin as soon as they leave their mother's womb, as you had seen when you had borne witness to your brother's birth. Some in your family has called it a curse, but your father bears the mark with pride. It is, after all, a reminder of how the first Trevelyan brought honour to the family name.

You remember the day your father sat you down and allowed you to trace the words on his skin with your fingers. You remember _soulmates_ and _last words_ and _freedom_ and _power_. You remember that red had tinged your eyes as you understood the meaning behind the words on your wrist, and you remember gasping at the ones on his chest, but he assured you that your mark shows that you are a true Trevelyan.

Your fingers absentmindedly trace the words through the fabric. "A _true_ Trevelyan. Is that even something to be proud of?"

You hear the voice in the back of your mind, dulled by the defenses you have honed before you had even learned how to walk. _'A true Trevelyan holds power greater than any other,'_ the creature reminds. You can feel the tendrils of its hold tease your skin, Desire calling for your submission.

You raise two fingers in the air, and frown at the dying laughter in your head. Moonlight from an open window bathes your skin with its silver touch, and you know that tonight is the night your mother fears. The bogeyman comes, you _know_ it.

A nearly inaudible shuffle and the glint in your peripheral tells you that you're right. You barely duck from the arrow that whizzes past your ear, and the fireball forms in your hand without hesitation. Somehow, just that action alone fuels your heart - you are _powerful_ , even in the face of such a threat.

You don't see the Red Jenny as you fight in the shadows of your childhood room, and you find that you don't need to. The bogeyman slithers like a snake and strikes like a dragon, evidenced by the marks and bruises on your skin. Whoever she is, she's breathing hard - exhaustion and pain piled together atop smothering hatred - and you know that despite your injuries, you can best this nighttime terror.

"Sod it," you hear her say as the bow hits the floor and you hear the unmistakeable sound of daggers being unsheathed. She rushes at you, and you fumble to raise a barrier up.

Just as you had feared, your, magic _falters_. The elf on top of you is small, perhaps a full head shorter than you, but the strength in her arms is undoubtable. Her daggers push against your staff, her intention of asphyxiation as clear as the dancing emeralds in her eyes. You see nothing but fury and disgust, and you gasp.

Looking at her _feels_ like power. Your breath leaves your lungs, you hear nothing but thunder in your ears, and the pounding of your heart echoes in the silence of the room. You have never felt anything of this intensity before, and you wonder briefly if its another form of blood magic - something _purer_ , more powerful.

You push back before the length of your staff can reach your chest, but your enemy is relentless. She aims her dagger at your throat, and you can't help but smile. Atop of you, murder shining in her eyes, sweat glinting in the moonlight, you feel you have found your muse. No Desire demon could ever pull you in as she does.

Perhaps, that is the strength of Red Jenny. Perhaps that is how she becomes as powerful as she is.

Still, you would not die at the hand of an assassin. Life is a power play, and you _never_ intend to lose. You release a wave of energy - pure magic pouring from your pores - and grab the knife discarded in her flight from you in a swift movement. The knife pierces her chest before her back hits your bed.

The roles are reversed. You are on top of her, but the fury remains in her eyes. Bloodied spittle flies to your face in a final act of defiance, but life is swift in its exodus. "You're _not_ human!" she screams, voice hoarse and throaty. You beg to differ; it is her that has haunted the minds of nobles everywhere, not you. It is her that has been called a demon, not you, but the remark dies in your lips at her next words. "You're a _monster_!"

Your brother described his initiation into Templarhood as feeling as though the world had been pulled from under you, and you had to ground yourself with having only your faith to guide you. Somehow, this feels the same. Light dies in her eyes, and the moonlight teases the words on your wrist - the band must have come undone during your duel. Written in the cursed black of a demonic deal long past, you see her last words perfectly mimicked.

_"We lose our soulmates,"_ your father's words from before ring in your head, _"We lose our bonds. Their last words are embedded in our skin to tell us when we are ready to spread our wings and fly, free to pursue power greater than any you have ever imagined. Trevelyans have no need for the love and comfort of soulmates, as we have all we need in the arms of our family. Cry not for your soulmate, Lily, for they only serve to hold you back."_

Holding the girl in your arms, you can't help but think that maybe your father's wrong. The faith that is supposed to ground you seems unattainable, the blood spilling through your fingertips does not call to you.

The soul you've thought too dark to feel _weeps_.

**Author's Note:**

> I should start writing fluff for my canon Sera-romance Inquisitor.
> 
> Title from You and I by PVRIS, which I had playing on repeat while I wrote this.


End file.
